A devout consumer of OprahThink is in a grocery store and happens upon a grandpa driving a shopping cart carrying his totally out-of-control 3 year-old grandson.
Inevitably, the shoppers encounter one another at irregular intervals, as will happen in supermarket itineraries.
It's obvious Gramps has his hands full with the kid screaming for candy in the candy aisle, cookies in the cookie aisle, tampons in the tampon aisle....
Meanwhile, Gramps is working his way around, evenly but audibly muttering a sort of mantra in a controlled voice, "Easy, Albert, we won't be long--easy, boy."
Another outburst, and the Oprah devotee hears Gramps calmly say, "It's alright, Albert, just a couple more minutes and we'll be outta here--hang in there, buddy."
At the checkout, the little sonofabitch is throwing items out of the cart, inflicting in one case a facial cut on a supermarket employee with a box of Fruitloops.
And yet Gramps, again in a controlled voice, is saying, "Albert, Albert, relax fella, don't get upset, this too will pass."
"We'll be home in five minutes. Stay cool, Albert."
Impressed as only a true Oprahvert can be, the woman exits the destroyed supermarket and surveys the parking lot, quickly spotting Gramps loading his groceries and the boy into the car, quickly approaching same.
"Excuse me, Sir, and I know I'm intruding--although that is perfectly alright now, just think of it as a 'benign intervention'--but you were simply amazing in there. I have no idea how you managed it. That whole time, you kept your composure and no matter how loud and disruptive the little boy got, you just calmly kept saying that everything would work out alright."
"Albert," she concludes, "is very lucky indeed to have you for his grandfather."
"Thanks a shitload, you useless cunt," replies Gramps, "But I'm Albert. That little motherfucker with the safety belt tied around his neck is Stevie."
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Old Grandad
I Don't Care What They Say--God Bless The IRS
The IRS decides to audit Grandpa and summons him to the IRS office.
The IRS auditor is not surprised when Grandpa shows up with his attorney.
The auditor says, "Well, sir, you have an extravagant lifestyle and no full-time employment, which you explain by saying that you win money gambling. I'm not sure the IRS finds that believable."
"I'm a great gambler and I can prove it," says Grandpa. "How about a demonstration?"
The auditor thinks for a moment and says, "Okay. Go ahead."
Grandpa says, 'I'll bet you a thousand dollars that I can bite my own eye."
The auditor thinks a moment--Jesus I hate people--then says, "It's a bet."
Grandpa removes his glass eye and bites it.
The auditor recoils in amazement.
Grandpa says, "Now, I'll bet you two thousand dollars that I can bite my other eye."
The auditor can tell Grandpa isn't blind, so he takes the bet.
Grandpa removes his dentures and bites his good eye.
The stunned auditor now realizes he has wagered and lost three grand, with Grandpa's attorney as a witness. He starts to get nervous.
"Want to go double or nothing?" Grandpa asks, tauntingly. "I'll bet you six thousand dollars that I can stand on one side of your desk and piss Evel Knievel-like into that wastebasket on the other side--and never lose a drop anywhere in between."
The auditor, twice burned, is now paranoid. But he looks carefully and decides there's no way in the world this old fart can possibly manage it. So he agrees again.
Grandpa stands beside the desk and unzips his pants.
Although he strains mightily, he can't make the stream reach the wastebasket on the other side, thus pissing on pretty much the entirety of the auditor's desk.
The auditor leaps with joy, realizing that he has just turned a major loss into a huge win.
Grandpa's attorney groans, utters the words "Oh my fucking God!" and plunges his heads in his hands.
"Excuse me Sir," says the auditor, "Are you okay?"
"Not really," says the attorney.
"This morning, when this decrepit sonofabitch told me he'd been summoned for an audit, he bet me twenty-five thousand dollars that he could come in here, piss all over your desk and you'd be happy about it."
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This Will Be My Last Correspondence
Padraic O'Cossett, pictured right in tandem with his lovely wife, Hillary Rodham O'Cossett, needs no introduction. He was inad- vertently born in an outdoor personal hygiene facility in County Cork, Ireland, whence he was exported as peat moss to another venue where it was felt he would be more comfortable--Poland. Graduating from the International School Bangkok alongside his close friend, Timothy Geithner, where both majored in Accounting Ethics, Paddy went on to study journalism at the Allan Greenspan School of Prophylactic Finance at NYU. After leaving a proof-reading position at Al-Jazeera just prior to his arraignment on what Amnesty International PLC termed a "like, totally bogus" charge of dromedarial sexual harassment, Paddy joined The Journal where his courageous work poolside at the Ramadan Inn in Gaza City garnered him the coveted Bernie Madoff Prize for Occupational Integrity.
The Editorial Waterboard was understandably eviscerated to receive the following missive this past weekend, sent by courier to the Rheum Room:
My Dear Friends and Collies,
This may well be my last communication to you.
As you may be aware, I am a registered Republican and sex offender. Owing to the election outcome and the far-left, Eastern liberace-elite outing of my good friend, Rush Limbaugh, I have decided to take my concomitant rage out on illegal immigrants, since there is no penalty attached to this.
Accordingly, I have made the decision to spend the next year as a volunteer with a guerrilla militia group on our Texas/Mexico border, fighting to protect our nation against illegal, undesirable and foreign immigrants, if there are any left after total economic collapse has worked its way through the economy of our glorious homeland.
I know many of you on the Editorial Waterboard will not understand, primarily due to your being passed out. But I have not made this decision lightly. These criminal border crossers must be stopped, no matter the personal toll on me or my beautiful wife, Hillary, due to possibly indefinite separation.
If this works out as planned, it's possible I will be staying on with the guerrilla militia indefinitely.
Thank you for your support in the past--which I hope will extend into my new field of patriotic endeavour, not only for the Waterboard and the readership, but also their children and their children's children. Or their grandchildren, whichever come first.
A photo of my guerrilla militia group can be viewed here.
Yours in Christ,
Padraic O'Cossett
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Washington Past Competition
One of The Journal's hapless ad-starved competitors [Pederasts to a man and several of the other three genders. --Ed.], "The Washington Past," has again published winning submissions to this year's contest in which readers are invited to supply alternate definitions for common words in order to fight and lose the war on turgid neologisms.
The winners are:
1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.
3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.
6. Negligent, adj.. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.
7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence, n.. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle n. A humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
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Up Against The Fence
An elderly couple is sitting at a table in the best restaurant in D.C. The husband, hoping to make up with the politically resurgent missus and worried about recent revelations concerning foreign contributions to his bogus, jumped up charity foundation, leans over and says to the wife: "Do you remember the first time we had sex together over fifty years ago? We went behind a certain nearby tavern where you leaned against the back fence and I made love to you."
"Oh yes," she replies, "I remember it well. Very well."
"Yeah, " he says, "Well how about we take a stroll over there again and we do it again for old time's sake?"
"Why Slick Willie, you old devil, I thought you'd given up on me...that sounds crazy!" Her eyes glaze slightly for a moment. "Crazy. But good."
The Secret Service man sitting in the next booth overhears their conversation and, having a chuckle to himself, he thinks to himself, I've got to see these two old-timers getting it on against a fence. Plus, it's my sworn duty to ensure their safety, I have no choice.
So he follows them.
The elderly couple walks haltingly along, leaning on each other for support aided by walking sticks. Finally, they get to the back of the tavern and make their way to the fence.
The old woman lifts her skirt and the old geezer drops his trousers. As she leans against the fence, the geezer moves in.
Suddenly, they erupt into the most furious sex that the Secret Service man has ever seen.
This goes on for a good ten minutes while the loin-locked couple is howling, heaving, moaning, creaming.
Finally, they both collapse to the ground, barely breathing.
The Secret Service man is gobsmacked. It occurs to him he has learned something about life and old age he never even suspected before.
After half an hour lying on the ground recovering, the old couple struggle painfully to their feet and ever so carefully manage to get back into their clothes.
The Secret Service man is still watching and thinks to himself: This is incredible and, unprofessional as it may be, I've got to know what their secret is.
So, as the couple passes, he says to them, "Excuse me Sir and Madam, and pardon me for having observed you even though it's my sworn duty to ensure your safety. But that was something else! I've never seen anything like it! I gotta know--what's your secret?
Shaking, the old buzzard is barely able to reply.
"Fifty years ago, Floyd, that wasn't an electric fence."
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Happy Birthday, Ed Zachary
The Editorial Waterboard takes time out from its busy schedule coordinating arms shipments to our brothers-in-arms in Gaza--Aloha Snackbar!--to wish The Journal's Senior International Correspondent, Ed Zachary a happy birthday. Ed is shown below shortly after catching a glimpse of his nemesis, Christine Jorgensen, on that piece of shit, CNN, our chief competitor in the 24/7 news cycle.
Ed is 153 years young.
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Sppourt Gzaa!
As the Readership well knows, The Journal's record of support for our Gazan brethren and cistern goes without saying, with the sole proviso that we say it. In stark and revealing contrast to the competition such as those motherfuckers at Time, Sports Illustrated, The Manchester Gurniad, Frankfurter Achtung, Reader's Digest, Classics Illustrated, Playgoy and The Jewish Weekly Chronicle, The Editorial Waterboard has courageously supported both Tostadas, the righteous rocketing of Zionist kindergartens, termination with extreme prejudice of Danish cartoonists and, most of all, the clitorial circumcision of Michael Edward Rashoff.
Yesterday's spontaneously orchestrated demonstration in Bumfuck was no exception. Shown above, from either left or right all the way over to the other side of the whatsis, are Waterboard members David Marvin Mailer, Hugh Jorgen and Padraic O'Cossett, exercising their Sharia-bout That© endowed right to stand on the pavement. Followed by a frenzied caucus at the Log Cabin Buffet in the Mens' Shitter, just down the hall from the Rheum Room at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn, starring Gore Vidal.
Aloha Snackbar™! And, like, death to all the other guys.
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Detroit Shocks With Bold Insourcing Move
JOCOP News Service, November 2, 2008
by David Marvin Mailer
Media pundits and the Association of Automotive Journalists That Missed The Detroit Meltdown In Its Entirety (AAJTMTDMIIE) were caught with their fender skirts down by the collective decision of GM, Ford and Chrysler to opt for bankruptcy, void all existing UAW contracts and insource all future labour from Bangladesh.
Meanwhile, automotive staff at "The Detroit Free Press" took their lives en masse in the editorial room, moving "The Times Literary Supplement" to note distinct parallels to a near-identical drama recounted in "The Tale of the 47 Ronin," said to have originally been inspired by the teachings of Yamaga Soko (1622-1685).
Rick Wagoner, CEO of GM, was said to be considering similar action in the event the brickies of Bangladesh refused to emigrate to Detroit under the auspices of graduate student visas within the next three business days.
"The anti-immigration crowd can go fuck themselves," Wagoner stated. "Far as I know, these guys are the only ones who can possibly save our ass."
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Waterboard Editorial: Eternal Verities
During this period of monetary paralysis, revived international Islamist PR campaigns, overnight evisceration of 401(¿que?)'s, penury without recourse to bankruptcy, societal implosion of vaginally reliable vacation venues, shot-down FICO scores, enhanced credit card interest charges, transexual erectile dysfunction and early onset constipation in the context of a hitherto unremarked prune crop failure, it may be well to turn once again to those eternal verities which have always sustained us during times of national trial--shopping and hard-core pornography.
Whereby we may succour one another [Looking for a nice sale/punitive leaseback on a condo in Boca? --Ed.] to take consolation from that solace which derives exclusively from a return to those great ontological Truths which yet lie just beneath the thin veneer of our civilization that must nevertheless sustain us during this time of cataclysmic national challenge to the survival of the Republic-- abandoned strip malls, E-coli laden fast food, melamine-laced yoghurt and J&J's new, improved KY™/No. 3 grit formulation, now on sale at a pharmacy near you.
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Chicken Tikka Masala Burger
It was the first day of the new school year in the USA for the new Indian student, Chandrasekhar Jawaharwal Patel. The teacher had introduced him to the fourth grade class, taking great care to get his name right, and had then assigned him a desk in the middle of the classroom.
The teacher then launched the term by saying, "Why don't we begin by reviewing some American History so we can all get an idea of where we are with the subject."
"OK," she began, "who said 'Give me Liberty or give me Death!'?"
A desolate sea of bloated tv and computer-ravaged countenances stared back at her.
Except for Chandrasekhar. Who had his hand up.
“Patrick Henry,1775,” he said.
“Very good, Chandrasekhar!” exclaimed the teacher.
"Now--who said 'Government of the People, by the People, for the People shall not perish from the Earth.'?”
Again, no response--except from Chandrasekhar.
“Abraham Lincoln, 1863,” said Chandrasekhar.
The teacher snapped at the class, “Class, you should be ashamed. Chandrasekhar, who is just arrived in our country, knows more about its history than you do!”
She heard a loud whisper: “Aw fuck a bunch o' Indians....”
"Who said that?' she demanded in an outraged voice.
Chandrasekhar put his hand up: “General George Armstrong Custer, 1862.”
At that point, a student in the back said, “I'm think I'm gonna puke.”
The teacher scanned the room of unfamiliar faces trying to place the source of this remark.
“All right, you spoiled little shits! Who said that!?”
Again Chandrasekhar spoke up: “George H. W. Bush to the Japanese Prime Minister, 1991.”
Now furious, another student actually stood up, clutching his crotch, and yelled: “Oh yeah? Well suck on this!”
Chandrasekhar jumped out of his chair waving his hand and shouted to the teacher: “Bill Clinton, to Monica Lewinsky, 1997!”
With the class now in total mob/loot/lynch mode, a manacing pre-pubescent voice came from the back of the room: “You little sonofabitch! If you say another word, I'll kill you!”
Chandrasekhar jumped up and shrieked: “Michael Jackson, to one of the child witnesses testifying against him! 2004!”
The teacher fainted.
As the class gathered around the floored educator, someone said, “Oh Geezuz...we're really fucked now!"
Quietly easing himself toward the door of the classroom for his own safety, Chandrasekhar muttered the answer under his breath: "Native-born Americans with stock market investments and public school educations. 2008."
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The Investment Banker's Story
Morris, the investment banker, has a heart attack at his desk but is resuscitated in the ER by a group of insane doctors crazed by their plummeting portfolios which is a miracle.
The lead surgeon, whose hands are visibly trembling--not from the operation but from the steep fall in Citigroup --says: "Mr Morris, break it to me gently. Will Citigroup ever rebound?"
"I doubt it. The market doesn't lie or inflate medical bills. That's the price and it looks like it's headed either for nationalization...or zero."
"Ohhhhh Jesus Jumpup Christ," moans the surgeon, "I'm fucked!" he says, breaking into tears.
Then he turns to Morris and says tearily, "By the way, so are you--you have 24 hours to live, incredibly sorry and all that other shit, please sign out at the desk and sign the bill, ok? Are you dead certain about Citigroup...?" he implores the patient with a decrepit whimper....
But Morris is already out the door and the bill can go straight onto the hospital's Chapter 11 application.
Morris, who is also in up to his neck in Citi, takes a cab back to the apartment with the Mariana Trench mortgage, opens the door, sets down his briefcase and, incredibly, finds himself horny as a two-peckered billygoat.
Of course, he has to give the wife the bad news; but since she does not follow the market and basically lives to shop, she takes it in stride and asks him if he'd like anything special for dinner.
"No, I'm not hungry. What I really need, Doris, is a good blow job and a fuck."
Naturally, she agrees, so they make love right there on the living room floor.
About six hours later, Morris approaches the missus once again and and says, "Honey, you know I now have only 18 hours to live. How 'bout it?"
"Of course, sweetie," replies the wife and they do it again, this time on the kitchen table.
Later, as Morris is getting into bed, he looks at his watch and realizes that he now has only eight hours left.
He caresses his wife's shoulder ever so gently and murmurs, "Snookiepie, please... just one more time before I die."
"Of course, dear," she says. And they do the horizontal nasty for the third time.
After this session, the wife rolls over and falls into a deep slumber, utterly exhausted.
Morris, however, worried about his impending death under the shadow of the tremendous hit he took on a bank managed by fellow Yale alumni of George W. Bush, tosses and turns relentlessly--but there is no end to it, he is deep into the utter blackness of death and despair, especially in the context of a market meltdown the likes of which he'd never even imagined in his worst days sitting at that goddamned desk.
He looks at the bedside clock. The pitiless motherfucker stares back at him like the useless foreign-made piece of shit it truly is....
He's down to a mere four more hours.
Desperate and yet still unnaturally--irrationally--randy, he taps his wife's shoulder urgently.
"Honey, Honey! I only have four hours to go! Do you think we could--"
The wife sits up suddenly, totally petulant and fed up.
"Listen, Morris, that's it, goddammit, I have to get up in the morning! You don't!"
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The Golden Years
Mike Rashoff, The Journal's Parking Lot Traffic Control Bureau Chief, was busy directing cars to empty spaces at 1:30 AM one morning at Costco when Al Gore ran up to him and excitedly ejaculated: "Mike! Mike! This story just came in from the War Department! The Japs are coming any minute, you gotta get this to The Journal immediately, oh Jesus, here they come, they're gonna strafe Costco!!"
Two weeks later, after voting for the Climate Change candidate, Rutherford B. Hayes, Mike forwarded this to the Editorial Waterboard ad hoc quorum in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn.
Readers cannot act too quickly in responding to this imminent threat to hearth and home. (The kids can--it goes without saying--go fuck themselves.)
After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security.
The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.
So the woman said, "Unbutton your shirt." I forthwith opened my shirt revealing my massive chest with its manly veneer of curly silver hair.
She said, "That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me" and immediately processed my Social Security application.
When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.
She said: "You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten Disability too."
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The Perfect Woman
JOCOP News Service--Washington DC by Ed Zachary
They came in their thousands.
Post-genderial feminists, bull dykes, GBLT Anarchists, Log Cabin Republicans and pussy-whipped Democrats gathered at the Capitol Mall to embrace Jesus H. Christ as their personal savior upon hearing the news that Hilarious Hamrod Clitorius (don't wanna rub her the wrong way) would likely be appointed Secretary of State and in-house Backstabber-in-Chief of the incoming BO administration.
"I'm so fucking thrilled, I just shit myself," squealed Hermione Pudendio of Amarillo Texas, a former Clitorius delegate.
"She'll be just great with her extensive foreign policy exposure going back at least 16 years when she was in an excellent position to tour executive mansions occupied by corrupt dictators and order room service from the various Hyatt presidential suites across the globe surrounded by Secret Service personnel. She got to know real people well that way. You wouldn't happen to have any WD-40 on you, would ya?"
Questioned as to the role of the former President in such a scenario, Pudendio replied, "Oh hell. He won't be no problem. People think he's a womanizer...but word is, he might get people to play with it, but the train never quite makes it to the tunnel, if you know what I mean. But that's ok, I'm with him a hundred percent as far as that goes. And so is my wife, Lois. Come to think of it, I guess you could say we got a lot in common."
Senator Clitorius' office refused comment on the report, except to forward a copy of the ex-President's new book, the cover of which appears above, a Journal exclusive.
Photoshop replacement of the vaginal vortex by a mouth was rejected by Clinton's publishers, who wish to remain unanimous on the grounds it would constitute a violation of the Homeland Anti-Irony Act of 1975.
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Humphrey Bogart Elected President in Stunning Upset
JOCOP News Service. November 4, 2008. Bumfuck
In a stunning upset, Humphrey Bogart was elected by a 4% margin over Governor Michael Palin for the Presidency of the United States in a come-from-out-of-nowhere upset that electrified stunned media pundits, both major political parties and multinational liquor and tobacco companies, whose stocks surged on the announcement.
Bogart was the nearly-unknown write-in candidate of the National Alcoholic Party (NAP).
At a press conference at NAP headquarters in Forest Lawn Cemetary, called immediately after announcement of the final electoral results, the Washington Post correspondent asked Bogart for his reaction to the election result:
"I can only attribute the election result to an electorate that has finally woken up and smelled the vodka--it was time for a change and change is what the people are finally going to get. They may not like it--if they get slapped, they'll stay slapped. But if you can't even pull a voting lever correctly, you had it coming, end of story, see?"
The NYT lead reporter inquired:
"But what of your health, Mr President-elect. You've been dead for 50 years. Won't your Vice-Presidential candidate automatically assume office?"
"This is a common misconception. Many of the candidates running over the past 40 years have, by any functional definition, been terminally deceased. I addressed this issue during my campaign in depth--being dead is not Constitutionally defined nor is it necessarily a disqualification for holding office, anymore than those physical ailments which have characterized numerous Presidents over the period of time since my own personal interment. These have included Addison's Disease, Syphilis, Alzheimer's, Stupidity, Carter Spinal-Vacuum Syndrome, Diverticulitis, Constipation and, most recently in the case of my immediate predecessor, Infant Death Syndrome--his own."
"Who is your running mate, by the way?"
"Claude Rains."
"Forgive me for asking, Mr President-elect," ejaculated the Washington Post correspondent, "but what are the main planks of your platform? These did not come to the electorate's attention during the campaign, owing to the obscurity of your--"
"Hold it right there, Bub. For the past 40 years, the electorate has been higher than I ever was. I mean, the whole country's been ripped out of its mind. I'm just a piker--by comparison I'm stone cold sober. Look at my hands--dead steady. That's why I can run the country and they can't even buy a cuppa joe for less than six bucks. As for my platform, it's simple: The world is two drinks behind."
Ed Zachary of JOCOP News service inquired: "Mr President-elect, you face a shitload of problems that would overwhelm anyone actually alive, including two wars, 25 years of financial bubbles, a crumbling economy and a brain-dead electorate. Aren't you concerned this will impact your family as you dissolve in the Oval Office?"
"Ed, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that..."
"But Mr President-elect, the wire services are rife with reports that you have appointed nobody to your cabinet during this time of national crisis. Is there some rationale behind this refusal to get started on the nation's recovery."
Bogart shot back: "I stick my neck out for nobody."
Joe Kidd, National Correspondent for the Washington Post, interjected: "Mr Obama, as you may have noticed, I'm blind--visually challenged to the nth degree, can't see a goddamned thing, nada, nichts, rien, zippadeedoodah. It has been said you are able to heal the infirm, the diseased, the weak and the poor, the insane, the syphilitic and the Republicans with a mere glance. Unprofessional as it may seem, I'm asking you now, selfishly, to cure my blindness."
"Here's looking at you, Kidd," replied Bogart.
The next press conference is scheduled for next Thursday.
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